


Of Angels and Demons

by oooOutisooo



Category: 2P Hetalia - Fandom, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 2P, Alfred Ivan and Kiku are kids, FrUK, France/England Rivalry, Gen, Human Names/AU, Lots of 2Ps, Multi, Other, Pretty much all of the countries that I can fit will make a cameo, Supernatural Elements, angels/demons - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-03-29 11:27:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3894628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oooOutisooo/pseuds/oooOutisooo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred F. Jones, like many other ten-year-olds, doesn't spend much time considering the consequences of his actions. Matthew Williams, his Shoulder Angel, finds managing him nearly impossible. His Shoulder Demon, Gilbert Beilschmidt, is, on the other hand, quite happy with this assignment. However, one night, when Alfred runs away from home, he finds himself with two more Shoulder Spirits; Arthur Kirkland, the guilt-ridden "Hand of Heaven," and his rival, Francis Bonnefoy the "Fist of Hell."<br/>But things are not as they seem to be at first glance, and dark surprises are in store for the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna be pretty long. And after I'm done I have ideas for a prequel and a sequel, if anyone shows interest. And I'll probably re-write the whole thing, too, at some point.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Essentially, world-information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a prologue, but I already have several chapters typed, and will be posting them soon. Enjoy!

Prologue

There are universes beyond our own. However, even though we share the same space as they do, we can never touch.

Some among us posses a clarity needed to peer into these other worlds, to look in and catch a snapshot of what these places are like, of the stories that are present there. Some can _see_ into these worlds clearly, and, searching for and finding those of us in our own universe who are the parallels of those present in the story they wish to share, they create a movie, or a show, to share the experience of viewing another world. If they can’t do this through live action, or if they simply don’t want to, they may do this through artwork, graphic novels, or animation.

Some see literally a single picture, and a realm of possibility in the story behind it. These are more traditional artists. Others can perceive the very thoughts of those beyond our realm. These are those involved in the makings of films, shows, and graphic novels. In anime, manga, comics, and cartoons.

Then there are those who do not see, but _feel_. Thier realm is words, not pictures. They _invented_  many words, to try and describe the other worlds. They are the writers. The poets, and the scriptwriters. The authors of novels.

Some, who find words fail them in describing what they sense, turn instead to music, in an attempt to share these feelings more clearly. They are musicians. Composers, singers, and bands.

Each of these tasks is a hard one. Some are capable of performing more than one, but many must search for another who can see into the world or worlds they perceive, to help carry the load.

But they are all driven to share what they know. To share the worlds they can see or feel so clearly, even if they do not realize what it is. Once they do, they open a window for others to look into these worlds. And for some, who have that same clarity, to look beyond the world presented, into other, branching worlds.

That clarity is imagination.

This story, as all stories do, takes place in one of these worlds.

First, you must look to a window. In this instance, I speak of Hetalia.

Look through the window.

You see countries personified, and their lives as such.

Find a branch of alternate universes, where these characters are no longer countries, but human.

Scroll through. Find the universes such as these which contain supernatural or spiritual elements.

Continue on through to the section labeled ‘Angels, Demons, Ghosts, and other Post-Life Creatures’.

There are still too many to simply look through them. Let’s narrow the category further. To universes where encounters with such creatures are an accepted and natural piece of everyday life.

This will have to do. Look for a universe that reminds you of the expression, “devil on your shoulder.”

Have you found it yet?

Didn’t think so. There are endless possibilities.

I’ll try to help you a bit more, then.

You’re looking for a universe where every single person is born with an “Angel” or “Demon” “on their shoulder.” Meaning that each person is assigned two Spirits, one aligned with “Hell,” the other with “Heaven,” which are held responsible for the moral alignment of that person. And every person, after their death, is required to do one term of service as one of these said “Angels” or “Demons,” depending on the success of their moral upbringing to one side or another.

One term means one lifetime. The lifetime of whichever person they are assigned to. After which, they are given a choice. Continue service, and shape the morals of another youth. Retire, and go on to the afterlife, which is simply a place where no one dies or grows any older or is ill, one that can be changed to suit your fancies on a whim, to a small degree. And it doesn’t matter whether you worked as a Demon or an Angel. Or stay on Earth as a “ghost.” No “heaven,” no benefits. You’re still stuck on earth, but you are no longer expected to provide anyone with moral guidance, and never will be.

All of which is run by “Headquarters,” an organization with three divisions; Heaven, Hell, and Afterlife. Shoulder Angels fall under the jurisdiction of Heaven. Shoulder Demons under Hell’s. And the well-being of Spirits after their death is the responsibility of Afterlife. Each of these three divisions is run by an elected representative. No one knows the mastermind behind Headquarters itself, but they do know the spokesperson: Wang Yao, an ancient Spirit claiming to be one of the oldest, and therefore the wisest. He insists that _he_ is the ruler of Headquarters, but everyone knows that he’s taking orders from _someone_.

I hope that that has been enough information to lead you here.

There are many stories present in this universe. So many different adventures to choose from and illustrate for you.

But I think I’ll show you one that encompases many stories.

One about a ten-year-old boy, Alfred F. Jones, and the chain of events that he triggers when he runs away from home one Saturday night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all feedback would be appreciated. I'm going to add my other 20-something already typed chapters here soon, but for now you can read them on fanfiction.net, if you just can't wait.


	2. Chapter One; Reevaluated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred runs away from home, and we meet our main group.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! First chapter! Of about twenty that are already written... Yeah, this is gonna be a long one...

Chapter One; Reevaluated

“Alfred, I don’t think you should…”

“Oh, don’t listen to Birdie, Alfred! This is so totally awesome! Almost as awesome as you getting _me_ as your Shoulder Demon!”

“Alfred…”

“Shut up, both of you.” Alfred says, as he crouches behind the sunflowers in his neighbor’s yard, trying to ignore the two small, winged people sitting on each of his shoulders.

He had to, didn’t he? If he was going to survive on his own. He needed food, and money, and those snob neighbors of his wouldn’t miss a couple hundred dollars. Hell, he’d seen the mother blow a couple thousand like nothing. And he couldn’t go home. Not now.

He wasn’t aware of speaking aloud, but he must have, because suddenly, Matthew bursts out, “What are you _thinking_ , Alfred! Of course you can go home! Your Mom probably doesn’t even know you’re gone.”

“And if she does?” Alfred’s lips barely move as he says this, his eyes still focusing on the mansion in front of him, looking for a weakness in the “security;” locked doors. Gilbert had taught him how to pick locks, but he wasn’t very good, and he wasn’t very fast. If he had to take the time to sit by the front door and fiddle with it’s lock, the likelihood of him getting caught increased exponentially. No, what he needed was…

An open window. Perfect.

“She doesn’t.” Matthew snorts, making his large, feathery white wings rustle as he adjusts the halo floating an inch above his chin-length blond hair. “Not after the sleeping pills Gilbert had you put in her supper, though why, I don’t know. She sleeps like a rock as it is.”

Gilbert is lying back on Alfred’s shoulder, arms folded behind his head, bat-like wings tucked flat beneath his back, tail moving lazily as he lays there. His dark hood is covering his snow-white hair, his ruby eyes closed as he grins, smug as a Chesire cat. “Simple, Mattie. It was awesome. Like in a movie. Slip drugs into the jailer’s food, then make your escape.”

Matthew rolls his violet eyes, before refocusing on the boy whose shoulder he was currently riding. “Please, Alfred. Don’t do this. There’s no reason to. You’re not in trouble yet, and your Mom never _really_ punishes you anyways. If you turn back now, we can all just pretend this never happened.”

Matthew doesn’t understand. Part of the reason Alfred is doing this is _because_ his mother never notices him, or hardly ever. She’s always in her room, worrying about his father, who’d joined the army for the sake of a family tradition. One his father expected Alfred to carry on, as evident by the bomber jacket his father had sent him for his last birthday. And, when not worrying, his mother’s maintaining his father’s business, which made parts or something. Alfred wasn’t really sure. But apparently it was good money, because they could afford to live in _this_ neighborhood.

“I’m telling you, Alfred, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. No one ever has adventures from home. Besides, it’s not like you’ve just decided to live on the streets forever. After we get to Emily’s, you can live with her.”

“She’s Amelia now, she hates that nickname, Gil, and she’s barely keeping her apartment as it is; it would be wrong to push another mouth unto her. And even then, she lives in New York City, and Alfred can’t drive. It’ll take forever to get there.”

Amelia is Alfred’s sister. When he was little, though, he called her ‘Meli, since he couldn’t pronounce Amelia, and later he called her Emily, just to annoy her. She’s in college now, studying to be an actress, while also getting a general degree, but her dream is, and  has always been, to be the first woman to play seriously in Major League Baseball. She’s his only sibling, and they’re very close, but he knows that what Matthew says is true. On top of school, Amelia has to work in order to earn money for food and rent. Their parents paid half of her tuition, and the other was paid by her partial scholarship, but their mother insists she pay for lodging and basic needs herself, _supposedly_ in order to learn responsibility, something their father approves of, but mostly because their mother doesn’t approve of Amelia’s career choice. But regardless, he’s already decided that he won’t go to her for help. Not that Mattie or Gil need to know that.

“That’s why we’re doing this,” Gilbert shrugs, not seeing anything particularly wrong with what they were about to do, though knowing others would view it differently. “So we can get supplies. We’re Robin Hood stealing from the rich, and giving the goods to ourselves, the poor. And we’ll give whatever’s left to _Emily_ as a thank-you gift for bringing us in.”

“That’s not how it works, Gilbert, and, besides, don’t you think you’re taking this ‘demon’ thing a bit—oh.” The small, sad sound of understanding is accompanied by an expression of uncertainty. Gilbert’s reasons _weren’t_ unfounded, but… “You still can’t drag Alfred off on some fool quest.” He says, firmly, but not unkindly. “Look for him online or something. You know better than I what will happen if we let Alfred go through with this. You’re letting personal feelings get in the way of your duty.”

“I don’t care. I can’t help it, Matt, you _know_ he’s like a brother to me. It’s been ten years, and he didn’t just lose me. He lost his mother, too. I need to know how he’s doing, and I can’t, not if Alfred doesn’t do this.”

“You _want_ to be reevaluated?!” Matthew is incredulous. He doesn’t really understand how someone might _want_ to be regarded as inadequately able to do a job, but, then, Gilbert _has_ been doing this longer than he has.

The Prussian snickers, leaning against Alfred’s head. “Spoken like a true new-be. I’ve been reevaluated before. Nothing happens, except that another assignment is added to your list, and you get stuck with some stuffy, ‘experienced’ Spirits ‘helping’ you for the remainder of your current assignment.”

“A-hem.” Matthew turns, startled, wings almost smacking into the short, blond haired Angel that has appeared behind him. Especially when compared to Matthew, currently dressed in a Canadian sweatshirt adorned with a maple-leaf, the man was ridiculously traditional, wearing a white, one-shoulder, knee-length toga, and no shoes, as well as the plainest golden Halo in Matthew’s, admittedly limited, experience (Matthew had a small maple-leaf attached to his). The only apparent personal touch the newcomer seemed to have added was a small, circular locket with a strange engraving.

“Yes, well, I’ll be one of the, how was it that you put it? Yes, ‘stuffy, ‘experienced’ Spirits ‘helping’ you’ until your current assignment joins us in the spiritual realm. Speaking of, I assume that this blond fellow here is my new assignment?” says the Shoulder Angel, in his thick british accent, pointing to Alfred’s head. “Bloody young. The two of you couldn’t even handle ten years?”

Gilbert peers at the green-eyed Angel from behind Alfred’s neck, curious. He’s been reevaluated twice before, and he’d never seen this Angel, though he’d heard that he had been given the pair who were most common in these cases, which was largely why he’d referred to the Spirits who would join them as “Stuffy.” And despite the recent rise in population, re-evaluations aren’t actually all that common. “What happened to Elizaveta, and Roderich? Aren’t _they_ supposed to help the reevaluated? And where’s the new Demon?”

The Angel holds up a hand to stop the barrage of questions, sighing once before beginning to reply. “How about you let me answer each question _before_ proceeding with the next eight million. Yes, Elizaveta and Roderich are typically the ones who help the reevaluated... when the problem is irresponsibility, and not a severe personality and swaying power imbalance in the Angel-Demon team. But, besides that, they’re already on assignment, so they’re not available, in any case. And as for the new Demon… Well, I’m sure Headquarters will send someone—”

There’s a bang, and a taller blond appears, this one a Demon with a hairstyle similar  to Matthew’s, wearing a simple black suit with a blood red rose in its jacket pocket. Rather than the typical horns, he has pointed ears, and lacks a tail, though he does have large, black-feathered wings. He shortly begins yelling, in a French accent, about how they “couldn’t do this to him” and “he hadn’t done anything _wrong_ this time” and “why should _he_ have to help some incompetent fools at the cost of _his_ freedom.”

“Any minute. Well, speak of the devil and all that.” Arthur laughs nervously. “Terribly sorry to young Alfred, for all of the confusion.  Anyway, I’m Arthur Kirkland, and I _hope_ we can all get along in the years to come.” He finishes quickly, almost panicky as he concludes that _that_ whiny voice could only belong to one person...

A person who has fallen silent, also evaluating the other’s speech and, turning to confirm that, yes, it was _that_ Arthur Kirkland, he can’t help letting out a “hon, hon, hon,” that leaves the other’s blood cold, so-to-speak.

Except, it seems, Gilbert’s.

“Hey, Francis, this is so awesome! It’ seems like it’s been forever!”

Francis smirks. “Yes. That does tend to happen when you get the two of us put on a practically permanent probation. Of course, _both_ of us _were_ almost out, when you dragged me back into this horrid business.”

Gilbert is too busy hugging his old friend to take notice of the slight ice in his friend’s tone.

“Um...Guys?”

“Yes, Al?” Matthew asked, coming out of his slight trance.

“Oh, nothing. Just wanted you to know that I was still alive, and that, while you were all arguing, I raided my neighbor’s kitchen, and even managed to snatch about five hundred bucks, not that they’ll miss it.”

Gilbert jumps up, performing that embarrassing number rather uncomfortably known as the “victory dance.”

“Yeah! Go, Al! That was awesome, those Angels didn’t even notice!”

“Yes, excellent work… Alfred, was it? I look forward to seeing you among the ranks of Shoulder Demons in the future.”

This snaps Arthur out of _his_ , much deeper, trance, making him turn his head quickly to glare at Francis, eyes flashing.

“Nothing’s been decided, you idiotic frog. Bloody hell, the boy’s only ten years old, and even if he _does_ have _you_ on his shoulder, whispering those poisoned words of yours into his ear, he’s not yet so far gone that I can’t drag him back onto the right track.”

“Yes, of course,” Francis smiles wickedly, leaning nonchalantly against Alfred. “Nothing’s been decided. It’s _entirely_ possible that you can bring this boy away from the path of sinful fun and back on the hard, toiling path of righteousness. Just like you put ‘Jack-the-Ripper’ back on track. Or Adolf Hitler. Actually, now that I think of it, one of the only times you ever beat _me_ in the battle of morality was with little Alice, and we both know know where _she_ is now.”

“You were Hitler’s Shoulder Angel?” Alfred asks, intrigued.

“Damned Wanker!” Arthur shouts at the same time, “She was my daughter, you heartless bastard!” A furious Arthur lunges at the apparently smug Francis, but Matthew is trying to hold him down, and Gilbert is blocking his way.

“Temper, Temper,” Francis taunts, clicking his tongue, “You ought to be careful, mon petit lapin. You might just be switched to Demon if you can’t keep it in check.”

“Righteous anger is encouraged as Angel behaviour, and you know it.” Arthur retorts, scoffing as he plops down onto Alfred’s shoulder in resignation, slightly calmer. “Besides, Headquarters wouldn’t _dare_ reassign me. Especially not about something related to Alice. They know _some_ limits, at least.”

“You were Hitler’s Shoulder-Angel?” Alfred repeats, a bit impatiently.

“Yes. Quite probably one of the most embarrassing assignments of my career.” Arthur replies bitterly. “Unfortunately, the Holocaust can’t be blamed on Francis, though, or I’d be free of him. He’d have been permanently taken off duty, and it would have been anything but a retirement. Besides, he’s not one for murder. His favorite sin is usually a bit more... artistic. No, I’m not even sure if Hitler knew we were real, or if he even heard us at all, considering the number of voices he had housed in his head...” Arthur answers, trailing off in thought.

“Voices? So, he _was_ crazy,” Alfred says, nodding. He’d always thought so. No one could be that evil without having something wrong with their head.

“Yes. Although, I do have a theory about insanity. There are some specific voices that keep popping up, _usually_ only when I’ve been assigned another barmy nutter, but it’s still strange that the same ones keep popping up.”

Alfred is quiet as he realizes exactly what it was that Arthur had said, and then he asks, “Wait, you knew? Can you read minds, or something?”

Arthur shifts uncomfortably. “Well… yes, but not _much_ more than any other Angel. It’s just that while most only receive vague ideas of what their charges are feeling or thinking, to help prevent the possibility of being deceived by them, I can sometimes feel specifics, like what someone might be hiding if they try to tell only a partial truth, or different voices or tones in their thoughts.”

Alfred is too tired to be particularly alarmed, but Matthew is looking at Arthur in slight awe, and not a little curiosity. If _he_ were able to get a bit more knowledge out of Alfred’s thick skull, it probably would’ve been a bit longer before they were reevaluated. Though the boy was so stubborn that it was unlikely he could have put this off for too much longer.

Arthur is still rather uncomfortable. He doesn’t like talking about his abilities, especially when some of them are often doubted. Like some of the ways he comes across information. It wasn’t just slight _mind-reading_ , that was certain. And the fact that he could read the minds of those who were a bit off their trolley better than those who were sane was regarded with suspicion. So, he decides to get back to business.

“Alfred, are you really serious about running away?” Arthur is trying to change the subject, how cute. “Alfred?”

“He’s asleep,” Matthew says, half in amusement, half in weariness. “We won’t be able to wake him up.”  Matthew turns his gaze to Gilbert, eyes kind. It would do neither of them any good to deny the Demon the chance to do what he had begun this ridiculous crusade to achieve. “Gilbert… Go find Ludwig.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention that I love reviews? Because I do. Extremely. And I usually reply. It's just a thing. I don't even mind criticism, so long as it's constructive. I'm always looking to improve my writing. Next chapter will be posted when convenient. Which might be today, even.


	3. Chapter Two; Discovered Identities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil gets to re-unite with some faces from his past, and we learn a little more about Arthur and Francis's history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two, later than it should have been, but...  
> Enjoy!

Chapter Two; Discovered Identities

A short time later, Gilbert teleports to the house he had lived in when he had been the Shoulder Demon of Haldis, Ludwig’s mother. For a second, he blinks at the sudden light. It had been near eleven in the New York suburb, but here in California it was still almost eight. He wasn’t certain that Ludwig would actually be here, but it was a start, at least. It would be faster to just contact Feliciano, or Lovino, but if Ludwig was bitter that he had stayed away for so long, he didn’t want to be turned away before actually setting eyes on the boy he’d come to love as a brother in the seven years that he had known him.

Gilbert frowns. When Gil had known him, the very thought of Ludwig being bitter, or even holding a grudge, would have been inconceivable. But it had been ten years, and a lot could happen in ten years. Especially after losing everything, like Ludwig had. Other than Haldis, Romulus, her Shoulder Angel, Gilbert, Lovino, Ludwig’s Shoulder Demon, and Feliciano, his Shoulder Angel, Ludwig had had no one. He was probably in a foster home somewhere, waiting to turn eighteen.

Gil finds himself struggling with second thoughts. What made him think that _this_ would be a good idea? He should have been patient, waited for nature to do its thing, and re-unite with Ludwig after either Alfred or Ludwig died. This was bound to get awkward...

A click in the lock surprises him, and he turns to see a baby-faced man with soft brown hair carrying groceries, most noticeably an entire brown bag of bright red tomatoes, and wearing a loose white shirt and jeans.  This must be Antonio, a man Francis had told him about before he’d left. The one assigned to Roderich and Elizaveta.

And Ludwig.

They stare at each other for a moment, stunned. Then something flies toward the albino, arms out for a hug, yelling something in Italian, the force of whose launch almost sends them both skidding a few feet.

As they stop, Gilbert looks down at the Shoulder Angel, flustered. Feliciano, at least, was the same as ever. He even had the same look. A shirtless outfit consisting of a short, loose white skirt and, thankfully, underwear. He wasn’t wearing shoes yet, either. He’d gotten rid of the Halo, though. And his wings weren’t quite as… flamboyant as they had been. “Oh… Hey, Feli. Almost forgot you were a hugger,” he says, chuckling uncomfortably. Oh well. No turning back now.

“Gilbert… Is that really you?”

Gilbert takes a moment to soak in Ludwig’s appearance before he lets out another nervous chuckle. The eyes were the same blue, though they were more serious now. The hair the same light blond, cut the same as it used to be, even, except that Ludwig kept his bangs out of his eyes now. He still dresses immaculately, too, and he was wearing Haldis’s cross necklace, which seemed to be in good repair. And he’d grown up tall and muscular, but well-proportioned, not over-kill steroids body builder. Overall, Ludwig seems healthy enough, and that makes Gilbert glad. “Yeah, sorry I didn’t check up on you earlier, West,but I got re-assigned after, you-know, and I haven’t been able to get away until now…” he finished, rubbing the back of his head.

Roderich lets out a self-righteous sigh, because naturally he has to act like a stuck-up prick (Which is why _he’s_ the Demon, and Elizaveta is the Angel, despite her more obvious devious tendencies) and pushes up his glasses as he says, “Reevaluated _again_ , Gilbert? One would think you _like_ to be forced into indentured service.” Roderich was sitting on Antonio’s  shoulder, probably contemplating another symphony, judging by the fact that his white suit was slightly crumpled. The only time he would ever allow such a thing to happen would be while he was composing. Music had been his life. If his music sheets hadn’t been consumed by the fire that took both his and Elizaveta’s lives while they slept, he would undoubtedly have been revered as one of the great composers. But he’d never know for certain, and that had upset the Austrian more than the fact of his death.

Gilbert shrugs, not really caring about the Demon’s weak jibe. “I had to check on West.”

“Um…” Antonio looks uncomfortable as he attempts to enter the conversation. “Clearly this is a very intimate moment, and I don’t mean to intrude, but… Could someone please explain what’s going on?”

It _is_ a touching moment. Really. But Gil and Ludwig are both so awkward...

“Shut up, tomato-bastard. No one wants to—”

Lovino has changed his look a little bit since Gil last saw him. He’s more put-together now, less slovenly. He still wears a simple collared shirt and plain khakis, but they no longer look as though he’s slept in them.

Feliciano holds a hand over his twins mouth, cringing in embarrassment. “Lovino…” He begs, “Please be quiet. This is a very touching moment for Ludwig, and you don’t need to ruin it any more than you already have…”

Lovino ducks out of Feli’s arms, freeing his mouth. “I don’t care if that potato-bastard and his bastard pseudo-brother get upset. I just hate the sound of that tomato-bastards voice!”

After a short scuffle, Feliciano again succeeds in rendering his brother “speechless.” Over the years, he’s had quite a bit of practice in this area. They were younger than Elizaveta and Rodrich, but older than Gilbert, and they usually ended up with another assignment because of Lovino’s foul mouth.

“Sorry about that, Gil, you know what he’s like.” He says, holding the still-struggling Lovino. “Antonio, Gilbert was Ludwigs mother’s Shoulder Demon, and the two of them were like brothers for the first seven years of Ludwigs life, until his mother died. Then, Gilbert was forced to take another assignment, and they haven’t seen each other for ten years.”

“I see.” says Antonio, looking sideways at the Italian shoulder-angel (Feli said all of that in one breath, and very, very fast.) Then he turns to Gil, smiling. “Hello, I am Antonio, the man who owns this house now, and after he explained his history with the house, I agreed to let Ludwig rent his old room. Will you be coming here often?”

“Probably…” He _wanted_ to, but it would be so awkward… Actually, he would. He definitely would. Gilbert Beilschmidt does not give up on his friends just because of a little awkwardness. Besides, after the first few visits, it won’t be so bad.

“I _am_ curious, Gilbert.” Elizaveta says over her shoulder as she writes something down in her notebook. “With us on assignment… Who’s assisting you?”

“Francis—”

Elizaveta starts, abandoning the notebook. “Really?! But I thought they sent Arthur to help the your Angel, um…”

“Matthew. And yes, they did.”

Elizaveta stands, her wings fanning out in alarm, the notebook sliding off her lap.. “What are they thinking?! They’ll tear each other apart!”

“What are you talking about, Eliza?” Gilbert says, confused. “Yes, there seems to be some bad history between the two of them, but it didn’t look like either had any murderous intentions. Just a lot of sexual tension and yelling.”

“Maybe that’s all it is now,” Elizaveta concedes, picking up her notebook and placing it safely within the pocket of her apron, “but that _idiot_ , Francis, is going to bring Arthur to murder the dead, I know he is. He just can’t leave well enough alone. He was Arthur’s first partner.”

“I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

Elizaveta shakes her head. “You mean, you’re going to be _working_ with him, and you don’t know who Arthur really is?” She asks incredulously.

Gilbert shakes his head. “I wouldn’t need you to explain, if I did.”

She sighs, exasperated. “Arthur is the Hand of Heaven.”

Gilbert feels his stomach drop. He’s heard the stories about assignments given to the Hand of Heaven during his second assignment. Had told Matthew the stories to pass the time before Alfred could walk or talk. Stories about potential serial killers and assignments with slowly eroding minds. The Hand of Heaven, one of the oldest Angels still on duty. It was rumored that the Heaven department of Headquarters wouldn’t _let_ him retire, because he had been around so long that, otherwise, it was a true wonder that he _hadn’t_. It was even rumored that he had tried, many times, to achieve a second death, though whether there simply wasn’t any way, or he’d succeeded, and then been brought back to continue doing Heavens dirty work, was anybody’s guess.

Either way, it was the law that _everyone_ , even those beyond redemption, must be provided with a Shoulder Angel, and a Shoulder Demon. And Headquarters favorite answer to a seemingly irredeemable case was the Hand of Heaven.

Then, Gilbert thinks back to sweet, innocent, if mischievous and (thanks to Gilbert) misguided, Alfred. Why was _he_ the assignment of someone like the Hand of Heaven? And what did Francis have to do with…

Suddenly, it hits him.

“You mean that _Francis_ is…”

“Yes.”

“But… Why would the two of them…” Gilbert continues, still wondering about the involvement of two legendary Shoulder Spirits with his small charge. After all, it really had been just a simple reevaluation.

“Don’t worry about it, Gil.” says Elizaveta nonchalantly, sensing Gilberts uneasiness. After some time, her alarm had died down, and she saw that, perhaps, Headquarters had actually chosen the correct path for once. “Alfred’s probably a sort of reward-assignment. Every once in a while, after he’s convinced a future serial killer to not kill throughout his entire life, or after a particularly upsetting assignment, such as Adolf Hitler, the Heaven department, or sometimes Headquarters themselves, will award him with an easy, sane assignment. And Francis is probably there because Headquarters was sick of the two of them being so at odds for all these centuries. It looks like they’ve finally to let them battle it out. Don’t worry, though. Arthur’s professional enough to not let personal issues interfere with the moral molding of young Alfred. Still, it’ll be difficult working with them.”

“Why doesn’t Headquarters just keep the two apart?”

Elizaveta shrugs. “They’re the best and the worst, Heaven’s Hand and Hell’s Fist. Headquarters likes to pair them up, and if they could manage to not fight so much, they’d actually succeed in stopping more killers.”

“Makes sense,” says Gil, nodding, “Um… Could you tell me?” he continues, not a little awkwardly. “What happened? During their first assignment?”

Elizaveta looks startled. ‘Why?”

“Just… Curious, I guess. I’ve heard stories, but who’s to say what’s really true. And if I’m actually going to be working with the real deals...”

Elizaveta sighs, but nods, then says, “I don’t know all the details, but I suppose this is the gist of it: They were assigned to a young girl named Alice, who, for some reason or other, possessed powers, much like those that Arthur had possessed when _he_ was alive. She stayed on the strait-and-narrow her whole life, and apparently Arthur got attached. Francis barely even tried to steer her off course… She was just such a sweet little girl, and everyone knew that when she died, she was bound to be the most amazing Angel… And Heaven, no… Headquarters couldn’t wait. They saw how perfectly Arthur had turned out as a Shoulder Angel, how well his powers had manifested, and they decided that they had to have Alice immediately. Before she could be corrupted in any way. While she was still so young, before puberty, before hardship, before she could grow up… So, they… gave the kill order.

“But Arthur swore he wouldn’t let them. He pleaded with Headquarters, begged them to just wait until she died naturally. When they wouldn’t listen, he was frantic, fighting and calling for Francis to help, but Francis just stood by. And when the battle ended, Alice was dead. But Headquarters didn’t win either,  because the soul they finally lifted from Alice’s body… it was twisted, scarred, and burned beyond recognition. It looked like Alice, but it was like the soul of someone who had seen and experienced inexplicable horrors, and been driven mad by them. Arthur nearly lost his _own_ mind when he saw it. I can’t even comprehend what it must be to see that. Especially Arthur, with his added sensitivity. He’d have been able to see exactly how poor her condition was. Headquarters, at least, learned their lesson, and they haven’t given the kill order for selfish reasons since, and when necessary, they kill indirectly. And they never battle over a soul like they did with Alice.

“But ever since, they’ve still used Arthurs resistance to work him to the bone. And Arthur doesn’t protest when he’s been given a new assignment, because he hasn’t forgiven himself. But that doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t have a choice. He gets the standard five-year vacation every five assignments, but other than that he must work endlessly. He can’t retire, and he can’t even escape by giving up his place and becoming a ghost. And you’d think, after all these years, he’d have served his penance. But for whatever reason, Headquarters, or maybe it’s Arthur himself, doesn’t think so.”

Gilbert is silent, eyes downcast. He couldn’t imagine… What if it was him? What would _he_ have done, if the order had been to kill someone precious to him, like Ludwig…? The very idea was awful. “His own daughter…” He murmured.

The others gasped.

“Gil… You can’t mean…”

Gilbert lifted his eyes, putting it out of his mind.

“I’d better get back. If you’re right about those two, Mattie’s going to need help. Besides, I don’t want to come back to poor Alfred being woken up by a bloodbath. Bye, West! I’ll visit again soon!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, people; review. I'd like to know if it's confusing in any way, or whatever other feedback you can give me. I understand that not everybody has time to do so, but I'd really, really appreciate it if you do.


	4. Chapter Three; Hopelessly in Love?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Essentially, establishing the FrUK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that I've not yet even nearly caught up to the point I have posted on fanfiction.net

Chapter Three; Hopelessly in Love?

“I hope you had fun, Gilbert, because it looks like we’ll have more trouble keeping those two in line then they will us.” Matthew says, casting an irked glance in the direction of the others.

Gilbert steps onto a sunflower head next to Matthew, nodding as his eyes adjust to a second change in light. It was almost one in the morning here, now. Odd. Gilbert didn’t think he’d been gone so long. “More difficult than you might think. I met Roderich and Elizaveta at Ludwigs, and apparently, our two new partners are, respectively, the Hand of Heaven, and the Fist of Hell. _And_ they were each others’ first partners.”

Mattie climbs up to Gilbert’s sunflower, moving to sit beside him, whispering. “You mean…”

“Yup.” says Gil, then, with his best movie announcer voice, “That's right, folks, those legendary rivals, the perfect, incredibly dysfunctional team, assigned to all the most hopeless potential scum of the world, are going to be sharing _our_ shoulder space. And that’s not all…”

Gilbert proceeds to tell Matthew precisely what Elizaveta had told him, adding his own personal speculation, of course. _And_ in a more sober tone. Matthew was quiet for most of it, commenting on occasion. When Gilbert finished, the sky is considerably lighter, though the sun hasn’t quite begun to rise.

“But… That’s awful…” Matthew breathes when Gil finishes.

“What is awful, mes amis?” Francis’s voice appears suddenly, startling them both. Thankfully, though, he doesn’t seem to have heard anything besides the one comment.

“N-nothing!” Matthew protests, turning to the French Demon.

“Really?” Francis leans over the two of them, practically looming. “It did not _sound_ like nothing, mes amis, and I _am_ curious…” Suddenly, a wicked grin spreads across his face. “Of course, if you’d like to change the subject, we _could_ talk about whether or not the two of you are involved with one another… And, if not, why.”

“S-stop it, Francis!” Matthew splutters. “C’est rien d'important. You’re just being nosy again.”

Francis merely narrows his eyes, leaning towards the Canadian. “Do I know you…” Then, it comes to him. “Oh, that’s right! You were my last assignment, or, rather, what was _supposed_ to be my last assignment. The Canadian. Knew _you’d_ be an Angel, you were always so polite. I can see why you had to be reevaluated, though. Someone of your temperament shouldn’t have been expected to compete with someone as ‘outgoing’ as Gil in the first place. Especially since he could almost give dear old Iggy a run for his money.” He says. Then, as an afterthought... “Oh, look, the kid’s awake.”

Alfred sits up groggily, and looks, sleepily, in the direction of the Shoulder Spirits. He’d slept in his bomber jacket, so it’s wrinkled now, and the plain backpack he’d brought with him is on the ground nearby. All in all, it made the second most adorable picture of him being sleepy that was possible, beat only by the first time he’d gone to McDonalds and ended up asleep, half-eaten burger in hand, on the lap of a plaster Ronald McDonald statue.

“Why are there four of you now…?” He slurs, still half asleep. “And one of you is sleeping. I didn’t know that you _could_ sleep.”

Matthew glances reflexively at the snoring Arthur, saying, “Neither did I. Actually, I meant to ask you about that, Gil.”

Gilbert shrugs his shoulders, turning to Francis, who evidently decides to explain, because he says, “When a Spirit is made to continue their service far beyond the appointed term, farther than we really should ever be expected to without _some_ sort of drain, they learn to ‘sleep’ as a way to combat the unnatural tiredness of their long ‘life.’ Of course, it’s dangerous, due to the possibility of both a Demon and the human being conscious at the same time, without an Angel mediator, which could, admittedly, wreak havoc. Iggy’s too dutiful to knowingly allow that to happen, but I’ve learned that if _I_ sleep for a few hours, he’s bound to sleep for a few more.” Suddenly, Francis gains a more mischievous glint to his eye. “And as long as you three don’t blow my cover, and I pretend to wake up when he does, Iggy’s likely to continue to do so. Although…” Francis smiles wickedly. “I _have_ always wanted to stand over him smugly as he wakes up.”

“Iggy?” Alfred repeats. “I thought his name was Arthur.” Alfred is now fully awake, and remembers what happened last night. He still looks adorable, though, with that sleepy look in his eyes, and his jacket all rumpled.

“Just a little pet name I came up with for him,” Francis says, half murmuring. “He didn’t like it, but I told him that I _would_ give him a nickname. But that I’d let him pick, if he’d make minimal fuss. Angleterre, Mon Petit Lapin, or Iggy. He didn’t like the French, especially when I wouldn’t tell him what they meant, so he settled for Iggy. And I’ve gotten used to calling him that, though I actually prefer mon lapin.”

“Why do you call him a rabbit?” Matthew asks, sitting down. “He’s obviously British, so I understand why you might call him England, but why a rabbit?”

Francis chuckles, staring into the distance. “Because that’s what he acted like at first, a scared little rabbit, jumping and starting. Especially once he realized that the little baby we were watching was… Anyways, he’d literally jump into the air at the slightest thing. And then he’d fall when he realized his wings were holding him up. I always assumed that he skipped orientation, except that I couldn’t imagine him ever acting so irresponsible.”

“Theres an orientation?” Matthew asks, confused.

Francis turns to him, cocking his head. “Do Angels not get one?”

“Probably not…” Matthew murmurs. Then, so quiet the others don’t hear him. “Or they might have just forgotten to give one to _me_.”

They sit in silence for a while, as the sun rises.

All of a sudden, Gilbert pipes up again. “Hey, Al! Where are you going?”

Alfred smiles as he continues walking down the street. “Away, remember? Nothings changed about that. I’m _already_ a thief, and it’s possible that my mom’s up by now. I’m not going back just to get in trouble for stealing some money those snobs across the street will never miss.”

“Alfred, your mom’s going to be worried.”

Alfred laughs bitterly. “Then she can file a missing persons report, when she notices. I might just come back when she does.”

Francis grins. Perhaps this would be interesting after all.The boy seemed headstrong. Arthur was bound to lose patience quickly, and that was always fun to watch. And it would be even more interesting to see how Alfred reacted to Arthur, who was sometimes so stuffy. Especially since he was American. A laidback, _modern_ American at that. Arthur was very patriotic, and the fact that the British Empire ever lost a war to an upstart nation was always a point of contention for him.

“Wait a moment, Alfred,” he calls. “I’ll get Arthur.”

Matthew holds back, scrutinizing the blue-eyed demon. Having had him as a Shoulder Demon, Matthew knew Francis’s mindset. And, given what he had learned about Arthur, he doubted that his fellow Angel would appreciate waking up to find Francis taking advantage of him in any way. “Do you need help carrying him, Francis?” he says, sincere. “I know you aren’t the most athletic.”

“Non, mon ami canadien. I should be fine. Mon petit lapin is so light, I would think that he died from hunger, if it were not that all evidence of how you died is erased.”

This is because, obviously, it might scar young children just a wee bit if they ended up with a Shoulder Spirit who had experienced a particularly gruesome death. Spirits could, also, too a degree, choose to appear as an age younger than they strictly were at their death, and appear to have more limbs than they might, necessarily, have had in life. For instance, someone born without legs would find, in their afterlife, that they would be given some, if they so desired. This was a measure to increase happiness after death that was suggested and put into place by Afterlife, and one which many Spirits felt grateful for.

Francis picks up the Brit, quickly carrying him princess-style to Alfreds left shoulder.

Mattie is, for good reason, still worried. “Francis, Arthur belongs on the right shoulder, not the—”

Francis shushes him. “You’ll wake him. He looks very peaceful right now, and I’d appreciate the sight of him refraining from speaking for a while longer.” He says as he kneels next to Arthur, eyes twinkling in amusement. Examining the English Angels face, a new fancy strikes him, and he pokes at the mans thick eyebrows.

“Wonder what he’d do to me if I plucked those horrid eyebrows of his again.” He murmurs quietly. “It’s been a while since I tried that. Of course, I only succeeded once, and that was an accident…” Francis smiles. “It would be worth it, though. If only for his reaction. Even if he chopped my hair off again.”

Gilbert grabs a stunned Matthew, and flies back to the sunflower they were sitting on before, whispering in Mattie’s ear.

“Birdie, is it just me, or has Francis been sounding…”

“Hopelessly in love.” The Canadian finished. “Yes. But then, why…”

“Yes. Why stand by while Headquarters killed Alice? And why tease Arthur about Alice’s fate? It doesn’t make any sense.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviewing is the best reassurance that you could give me that I am not simply shouting out into an endless and empty void.


	5. Chapter Four; Ivan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet another player in the tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really should have updated this earlier. I have no excuse.

Chapter Four; Ivan

It’s Sunday morning, and Ivan sits at his desk, deep in thought, an open copy of George Orwell’s Animal Farm in front of him. One of his Angels, Toris, is playing Uno with one of his Demons, Feliks, to pass the time, while his other Angel, Katyusha, and Demon, Natalya, nap.

His grandfather is at the door, tapping his foot. Toris looks ready to mention it, and his grandfather is just about to clear his throat, when Ivan looks up and turns to his grandfather, violet eyes cool.

They stay like that for a while, both obviously waiting for the other to speak first. With each tap of the grandfathers foot, Toris becomes grows anxious, and Feliks more amused.

The grandfather’s Shoulder Spirits, a pair of old codgers who had been married in life, and had died side-by-side in a car accident, are on their respective shoulders, also tapping their feet as they scowl at the “young” (Feliks and Toris are actually older than them, if you go by years of experience, and Katyusha and Natalya are just as old, or even a little older.) “troublemakers.”

Ivan isn’t a fool. He knows that his grandfather either wants something from him, or is upset with him. And, since he can’t remember doing anything he considers wrong, or even something that might upset his grandfather enough to justify a lecture, rather than a note on his door detailing punishment, he assumes that his grandfather wants something from him. And he isn’t going to be the first to speak and make it easier for his grandfather to admit that he is in need of something.

Of course, even if he _had_ known of his grandfathers complaint against him, it wouldn’t have made any difference. His grandfather would have never believed that he was innocent. After all, one can imagine that Ivan’s track record did nothing to promote his character. And his grandfather trusted no one in the house, other than his own Angel, so none of the others would be able to vouch for him.

Admittedly, his grandfather had good reason. Katyusha and Natasha were both too infatuated with Ivan to ever betray him, and his mother was hardly better, though _her_ main motivation was guilt. Besides which, she was always out shopping anyway, so she could hardly be called a reliable champion. As for the others, his mother’s Shoulder Angel, Raivis, and Demon, Edward, along with Toris, were too intimidated by Ivan to do so either, under normal circumstances, though sometimes Raivis would blurt out compromising information without thinking. And even though Feliks was _not_ intimidated by Ivan, or even particularly fond of him, he was a Demon. Ivan's grandfather did not even trust his own Demon.

And though his grandfather was insistent on sending his Angel to watch Ivan often, she could hardly watch him every moment.

That’s why, when his grandfather finally breaks the silence with accusations, Ivan stays silent.

Ivan hadn’t taken either the money _or_ the food, though he wasn’t in trouble for _that_. As his grandfather puts it, he doesn’t _care_ if Ivan wants a snack sometimes, but Ivan needs to stick to his allowance when it comes to money. His grandfather never complained about his _mother’s_ spending habits, but that was only because Ivan’s mother was insufferable. As far as his grandfather was concerned, Ivan would _not_ be allowed to take money without asking.

Nevertheless, if his grandfather had paused to think, he would have realized that, quite apart from this not being Ivan’s style, Ivan, who had a steady allowance despite the fact that he rarely bought anything, had no reason to take any extra cash. And that, even if he _had_ , he would have admitted to it, since Ivan never really understood what upset his grandfather so much about what he considered to be, if anything, simple noncompliance. And even when he did something so heinous that even _he_ recognized it as a misdemeanor, he was surprised by the strength of his grandfather’s reactions.

Still, _someone_ had taken the money, and his mother only ever took credit cards. Not only was it easier, since she never had to worry about New York sales tax, or other added costs when she was out shopping in the city, it was also relatively cleaner than cash.

So someone must have actually broken in and stolen it. (Ivan was always thinking that they needed a more modern security system, but his grandfather was “old-fashioned” in many respects.) The only question was: who? A serious burglar would have taken more than a measly $500, and why the food? If anything, the small amount of money, coupled with the food, suggested either someone homeless, or a child, who hoped that, by taking a relatively small amount, the theft would go unnoticed. Which was probably why his grandfather, automatically assuming that locked doors were enough to keep out beggars, suspected him. Ivan can’t help but feel a tiny inkling of respect for the thief, whoever they are. If his grandfather wasn’t as strict and organized as he was, Ivan felt that such a trick might actually work.

A sharp pain brings his train of thought crashing into a wall, and as his grandfather begins another lecture about how Ivan never pays attention to him, he finds himself longing for Dedushka, his father’s father.

When his father had still been alive, they had lived with Dedushka. He hadn’t been part of a rich family then, since his grandfather had wanted nothing to do with the “low-life” son of a poor Russian immigrant who had run off with his daughter, and he felt no obligation to Ivan (they weren’t exactly starving to death) though he still financed his daughters shopping trips. But those had been happier days. Dedushka had had a big farm in the northern half of the state, and though the work was sometimes hard, it was satisfying. And their “neighbors” (farms in New York aren’t exactly on blocks, so by neighbors I mean those in the general vicinity) were nice enough, though Ivan used to think they were a bit strange, since they were Amish. But then, _their_ kids had thought that Dedushka and Babushka were strange, since they were Russian, and that his mother was strange because she drove  around in a fancy car and still lived and acted like the city girl she was, even when she was at the farm. Often, when he sat outside, Ivan would find himself missing his old view of plants, hills, and trees, with few houses, and certainly no suburbia, blocking the sights, such as they were. When his mother took him into New York City to visit Dedushka in the hospital, Ivan missed the farm much more intensely than usual, the crowds of people and loud sounds of life making him desperately wish for the peace and quiet in his old sunflower fields, and when he got home, he would hide among his sunflowers, a small piece of his old home still present in his new one.

His mother, on the other hand, had been and always would be a city girl through and through. She thrived on busy life and crowded places. After the fire, she had wanted to move deep into the city, had argued that the suburbs were inconvenient, and quiet. But Ivan's grandfather liked the quiet, one of the only things about him that Ivan could honestly say he appreciated. In the city, he wouldn’t have even been able to grow one of the very small varieties of sunflower, let alone his Russian Mammoths, which he couldn’t even grow now. Since she detested the country so much, his mother hadn’t been around that much when he was younger, often staying with friends in the city, and she had once been away for an entire summer, the one right after kindergarten, when he had started to cultivate sunflowers. When school started, she came back to get her stuff, then left again, only coming back on holidays, and random weeks.

Since she was hardly around, most of his happiest memories didn’t include her. Like in winter, a few days before Novi God (New Years), their family’s biggest holiday.

Ivan, anxious for Ded Moroz and Snegurochka to bring his presents, despite the fact that there were still three days until Novi God, would sit in the big armchair by the fire with Dedushka. The Angels and Demons on the back and arms, Babushka in the kitchen baking gingerbread, pastila, Vatrushka, chak-chak, apples, and Ivans favorite, Ptichie Moloko, in preparation for the coming holidays (western Christmas was already over, but they still had New Years, Orthodox Christmas, and Old New Years to celebrate.) And his father nearby, doing paperwork, or writing in his journal, pausing every once in a while to comment on the story that Dedushka was reading Ivan. Meanwhile, his mother would be in the city, probably shopping for a new dress to wear to the ball drop in times square while they had their family dinner.

Still, she gave him expensive gifts, which, being the way _her_ father had showed his love to her, was the only way she knew to show her love for _him_. And she _did_ love him, and his father, and even got along with Dedushka and Babushka. But she had _hated_ the farm.

There were other happy memories. Notably, midnight games of “find-your-father,” courtesy of his father's tendency to sleepwalk. “Help us find him,” Babushka would say. “You’re the best at it.”

Ivan has to smile. He’d only been the “best” because he knew where to look: halfway between the chickens and the goats. Too late, he remembers that he was being yelled at. Accused of something.

Theft.

The smile angers his grandfather, who reaches out to grab Ivan by his long scarf, (which had once been pink, but was now faded to a more tan-like shade), but not as much as the injustice of the situation angered Ivan.

He’d never stolen money, not once. Sure, back at the farm, when they went to the general store in the town nearest the farm (which was also where the library was, and where Ivan went to school when he was younger,) he might have pinched an extra few candies without paying, but he hadn’t been rich then, and he’d known that they overpriced things in order to make a bigger profit anyway, so when they sold a candy for two dollars that would be one dollar at a big store, he’d buy one, and take another. But after he’d come to the suburb, he hadn’t stolen anything. He had no reason to. His allowance made him richer in a month than he’d ever been on the farm.

And he’d been _trying_ to be “good” recently, not doing anything that he knew would make his grandfather yell at him, or anything that would send him to the principal’s office in school, even when he thought that not being allowed to do such things was ridiculous.

His grandfather pulls too hard, and the scarf comes undone, revealing the scars beneath. His grandfather had moved to hit him, seeing Ivan stumble back, and thinking that he was trying to get away, but he stops when he sees the scars.

“I’ll leave your punishment on your door.”

He leaves, and Ivan replaces the scarf, then lays down on the bed. Katyusha and Natalya are still sleeping, and Feliks has been enjoying the show. Toris seems like he might approach Ivan, but obviously thinks better of it, because he doesn’t.

Ivan’s grandfather never hits him after he sees the scars from the fire. They remind him that Ivan has already suffered. They remind _Ivan_ that he no longer lives on the farm, because the farm is gone. Like his father, and Babushka. And Dedushka, too, because he was in a coma, and even Ivan doubts that he will ever wake up again.

That’s why he always wears the long coat, and the scarf. Even though the scarf was pink at first. He doesn’t want to be reminded of what he has lost, any more than he wants to be reminded of what was forced to do because of it: come here, to this life in suburbia. A rich kid in rich kid city. He had to rely on his mother now, and _she_ wasn’t going back to the country.

It had been hard, though. Especially in the beginning, fresh from the fire, and as shy as he had been, but even now, when the others no longer dared to pick on him. When he had first arrived at his grandfather's house, though, the bullying had been almost unbearable. There were numerous reasons for him to be a target. He was new, he was shy, he was a “country boy,” and he always wore a long coat and pink scarf, which, while not poor or dirty, weren’t new, designer, _or_ expensive, despite the fact that his family was rich, even among those in the neighborhood.

And the four Shoulder Spirits, of course.

Everyone wanted to know what he had done to earn an extra pair. Whether they were jealous, or just curious, wasn’t entirely apparent, but it was one more thing to set him apart. Especially since he couldn’t remember ever doing anything to warrant an extra two. He’d just… always had them, or nearly always. But when he’d told those who asked that he didn’t remember, they’d assumed the same thing that his grandfather had. That is, they assumed that it was _really_ bad, something no one would want to admit to.

Which also meant that teachers watched him more closely, even as, assuming that someone who was enough of a problem child to have two pairs of Shoulder Spirits was more than capable of taking care of themselves, they turned blind eyes to those bullying him.

It was only a matter of time before the pressure cracked him, and after that, it was only natural for him to start living up to his reputation, though his intentions were, at the very least, not malicious.

He wanted friends, not enemies. Being shy wasn’t working. So he became more so forceful in his endeavors for friends that he intimidated people into into being his friends, or at least leaving him alone. He also became overly friendly, and determined. The more he wanted someone to be his friend, the more insistent he was.

But at least once he was living up to his reputation, and, consequently, acting scarier, the bullies were dissuaded.

Being accused of and punished for something he actually did had never bothered him, since half the punishments he was given didn’t affect him, and the other half weren’t enforced. But to be accused of this, something he hadn’t done, and wouldn’t have done, angers him. The fact that his grandfather would never believe that he was innocent added the sting of insult to injury. Because he’d always done what he’d been accused of, this was a new feeling, which meant it was also more intense.

He would find whoever was responsible for this.

He would make them pay, make them confess.

Clear his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos make me very, very happy. But comments make me a better writer. There is really nothing in this world that I desire more than constructive criticism. Reliable criticism. Any criticism.


	6. Chapter Five: Unexpected Developments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eh... Plot. Things are developing. Alfred continues to be away and running away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I continue to hope that people enjoy my work. I also continue to be completely in the dark about thier true opinions, because nobody has commented.

Chapter Five; Unexpected Developments

“Is he alright?” Alfred asks, worried, holding the still-sleeping Arthur in his hands. It was near lunch now, and Arthur still hadn’t woken up. “You said that he usually wakes up a few hours after you, didn’t you?”

Francis is hovering nearby, frowning. “Yes, I did. He’s very dutiful, despite, or perhaps because of, everything, and he would never knowingly leave an assignment unattended. Under normal circumstances, though, we choose how long we ‘sleep.’ So, unless his few assignments have been particularly taxing, and he figured that Matthew could handle Gilbert and myself while he rested, I don’t know of any reason for him to not be conscious.”

Matthew is pouting as he sits on Alfred’s shoulder. “That’s a joke. Alfred didn’t listen to me when I only had Gilbert to compete with. As it is, I’ve given up until Arthur wakes up.”

Gil pokes at him, trying to get him to react. “Come on, Birdie. It’s not as awesome keeping Alfred on the path of Fun and Naughtiness without you complaining about it.”

Alfred grins, adding, “And I do _hear_ you, Mattie. I just don’t see why I have to listen, half the time. And I _do_ listen the other half. Like when you talked me out of stealing Mom’s grocery money for this adventure.”

“And then you stole from your neighbors!”

“Who are much richer than Mom and won’t be affected by the loss in the least.”

Matthew looks ready to continue the argument, but then sighs in surrender. Alfred is always willing to bend rules when it comes to moral conflicts. Always justifying himself when it comes to doing wrong. Which is part of the reason why he’s been reevaluated at ten years old.

Francis kneels, gathering Arthur into his arms once more. “Alfred, if you’re still serious about running away, then I suggest that we get as far as we can from your house while mon lapin is still asleep.”

Alfred nods, placing them on his shoulder, and sets off at a determined pace, picking turns at random.

“You’re going to get us lost,” Matthew remarks, slightly bored.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mattie,” Alfred retorts over his shoulder. “You can’t get lost when you don’t know how to get where you’re going in the first place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this! I'll probably post the next chapter pretty quickly, because out of all of the ones I have on here so far, it's my favorite.


	7. Chapter Six: Oliver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of ominous dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's pretty obvious who this mysterious "voice" is, considering the tags. But I'll wait till the next chapter to technically confirm it.

Chapter Six; Oliver

 

Arthur’s continued sleep was by no means his choice. Nor was it particularly restful.

“Arthur,” a voice purrs. It can only be described as a purr. It sounds dark, dangerous.

Eerily familiar.

“What do you _want?_ ” Arthur snarls. This was the voice from when he was alive, the voice from the battle to protect his daughter.

The voice that had haunted him at his every turn. Every assignment. No matter where he went, or how much he drowned himself in drink or sleep between jobs. It didn’t matter how busy he kept himself.

Or how desperately he tried to run away.

But that voice, that damned voice, had never actually shown up in his dreams. It had always been a few taunting words here, a laugh there, once in a while a sarcastic comment, but always while he was conscious. And _never_ a conversation. And even now, the voice wasn’t answering him. Just laughing, laughing, laughing…

“I said, _what do you want!?_ ”

Again, with that bloody laugh. It still turns him cold, even after all these years. That laugh, and then the sickening realization that no one had won. The slow turn, to the sight of Alice’s soul, shattered and twisted. And the anger, at Headquarters, and at the voice.

That voice had possessed the damned frog. It had made that bastard turn on him when he’d needed an ally most, though it had not fought for Headquarters either. And, after, a mixed blessing; rearranging the Demon’s memory. Making it so that Francis hadn’t begged for forgiveness, probably still thought that he’d been out scouting when Headquarters had launched a surprise attack, and been too far to hear Arthur calling him.

But Francis had been on the battlefield, laughing, but not with his own voice. With _that_ one. Had given that last, bloodcurdling laugh as they all realized their mistake, and then stopped. Francis, on the ground in a heap, and Alice, gone past even death.

Maybe if he hadn’t stood in Headquarters way, then at least Alice’s soul would still be whole. But that didn’t matter now.  Now, all he could do was pay penance. Pay penance, and hope that time would heal his daughter’s wounds.

And he couldn’t blame anyone but himself, not even the bloody frog, because he _knew_ it wasn’t the Frenchman’s fault. The voice knows Arthur’s weaknesses, knows Arthur better than Arthur knows himself (which is totally unfair, because Arthur knows next to nothing about _him_.) The voice knew that Arthur wouldn’t be able to stand losing both Alice _and_ Francis. Never. Though he’ll also never admit that to the French Demon. And Headquarters couldn’t have known what the result of their actions would be. If they had, they would have stopped once Arthur had made it clear that he would resist them, no matter what. They didn’t-don’t-believe in waste.

“Well, then, it’s been nice ‘chatting’ with you, but if all you wanted to do was laugh at me, you can do it while I’m conscious.”

More laughter. Arthur tries to wake up, focusing on contacting his physical self, only to find a barrier.

As if it can sense his frustration, the voice begins to laugh more vigorously, guffawing as though he had just been told the funniest joke in the world.

“Bloody ecstatic that I amuse you. Really, I am. But, if you don’t mind, I’d like to wake up now.”

“Oh, but _Arthur_ ,” the voice whines, “You just got here.”

“Yes, I _did_ ,” Arthur concedes. “But I’ve seen, or, rather, _heard_ , enough for me to know that once is more than enough for me. So, if you please, I’d like to wake up now. If you _must_ , you can contact me while I make sure that Francis doesn’t turn that boy into a criminal mastermind.”

“Such a gentleman,” the voice taunts. It’s closer now, in his ear. As if someone were whispering a secret to him while hanging upside down. He could feel hair, cut short, maybe even in a similar style to his own, and cold lips.

“But you see, Arthur, that would simply be no _fun_. I’m finding that it’s much more amusing when you actually _talk_ to me.”

Arthur bolts a few feet, to rid himself of the sensation of whatever-that-was, and turns to see… nothing.

Of course. It couldn’t ever be that easy.

But that did slightly narrow the suspect list. Whoever was tormenting him had to be invisible, capable of turning invisible, or very, very fast.

“Let me see your face, you coward.” Arthur spits, disdainful and disgusted.

Not a full laugh, this time. A chuckle. “Oh… Very well.”

A face flickers in. Arthur catches a few glimpses. A shock of strawberry-blond hair. Blue eyes, ringed with pink. And the unsettling feeling of looking into a funhouse mirror.

Then he’s looking into Francis’s face, the frog’s arms behind his back, just below his wing joints, and beneath his knees.

He closes his eyes again quickly. Damn it, but he’s tired. More tired than he’s ever been before, even when he was alive. Tired, not just of a long life of service, but of everything else, too. Tired of existence. Tired of guilt. But more than that, he was just plain exhausted.

He manages to hear snippets of a conversation, something about not getting lost, before falling into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone commented! And, while the gems of comments are hilarious, or criticism, I am very grateful. And I've decided to tell my main motivations for requesting comments.  
> First; I intend to publish. I'm not entirely sure what, although I do have one story that I'm currently working on. But if I ever want to seriously do that, I feel that it's necessary for me to grow as a writer. Which means practice.  
> Second; This is fun. Insanely fun. But part of that fun is sharing it, and seeing what people think of it. I'd probably still write this if there *shudder* was no such thing as the internet (presuming that I had watched and was a fan of Hetalia) but it wouldn't be as gratifying. In short, writing this is fun, but reading comments gives me a sense of self-satisfaction. It makes me feel like I'm accomplishing something by putting my work out here for the world.  
> Third; I'm man enough to admit that I crave the attention. Back in reality, I've got my family (which is ridiculously large and complicated) and a few good friends who I met just a couple years ago when we moved here and I'm still learning to be comfortable around. Other than that, depending on the situation, I can be painfully socially awkward. Which is a little ironic considering that public speaking (except for impromptu public speaking) is no problem, and that I love acting. Like, wtf, I can do some damn embarrassing things onstage, but I used to struggle through a checkout counter?! And I STILL can't manage enough courage to go down to the Office to ask for something unless told to or desperate. But I can handle online contact very smoothly. Especially since silences can last for longer without getting awkward.  
> Fourth; they motivate me enough to update. I'm just about the most persistent procrastinator that there exists in the entire universe. Comments help me fight against that habit of procrastination by solidifying the idea that I'm keeping actual human beings-or, I don't know, bloodthirsty aliens-waiting on me, which gives me a social pressure that pushes me to work on the fic.  
> Anyway, I like, want, and desire more comments. Next chapter will be updated when it becomes convenient. Or the next time I decide to procrastinate on my schoolwork. Or, you know... typing another chapter so that I can update on fanfiction.net.


	8. Chapter Seven: Some Explainations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Except not really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay,no excuses...I just didn't work on it. It's a problem that happens to me surprisingly often despite how often I'm praised as "intelligent" or "wise." Honestly, there's no reason, and I'm sorry, but it will probably happen again.

 

Chapter Seven; Some Explanations

Alfred woke, for the second time, to a sleeping Angel. The others were all quiet, worried. Alfred was worried, too. He didn’t think that sleep was necessary for Shoulder Spirits to function: he’d never seen Gil or Mattie sleep; indeed, they never did. And even if Shoulder Spirits _did_ need sleep, Alfred didn’t think it would be normal for _anyone_ to sleep as long as Arthur has.

“Any change?” he asks, wiping off his jacket and folding his slightly damp blanket before putting it into his backpack. He’d slept in the backyard of a house that was for sale (there was a sign in front) and he was beginning to regret not trying harder to get into the house, or, at the very least, the small tool shed nearby. He couldn’t exactly stop to dry his blanket, and the dew, not to mention the chill, would make tomorrow night very uncomfortable. But, regardless, it was too late now.

“No,” Francis replies, from his position of kneeling beside Arthur, “Nothing.”

“But he’s not, like, dead again?” asks Alfred uncertainly. “Or, I don’t know, in a sort of post-life coma? Is that even possible?”

“I wouldn’t really know.” Francis retorts. “That sort of information is dealt with by Afterlife, which you can only become a member of after you’ve retired. Clearly, I am not retired. Even so, I have seen him sleep this long before, so it’s too soon to panic.

“For instance, almost all he ever does between jobs is drink until he passes out-which doesn’t take long-or just sleep off his ‘existence exhaustion’” (which is a term that Afterlife came up with specifically for Arthur. Since Francis didn’t seem to be hampered by it, though, there was a branch working on a theory that either: A, Angels were more susceptible to it; B, it only affected those who had experienced great pain or loss; or, C, it was a phenomenon specific to Arthur, and might, possibly, be caused by his abilities.) “But it can’t be either of those, because he’s on assignment. Still, he’s still been brought to this state on two separate occasions. Once after dreamwalking in an attempt to discover the identity of the true person behind the controls of Headquarters, and before that, after his daughter’s death.”

“Why would his daughter’s death send Arthur into a deep sleep?” Alfred asks, with all the innocence and self-assurance of a child who is certain he knows all there is to know about the world’s suffering. “Doesn’t death just mean that you become a Spirit and spend the rest of your existence either advising people, ‘living’ in the afterworld, or” Here, he gives a little shudder. He doesn’t like ghosts, never has. It was something his sister had constantly teased him about, and used against him, but they freaked him out. It wasn’t natural, wanting to stay here on earth without any sort of form, just hanging around, scaring people. “haunting the living?”

“Non, mon ami.” Francis says, his voice full of infinite sadness and regret. “I’m afraid that sometimes, death is not so kind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. This is such a mess and I haven't worked on this fic for more than a year. I need to tear it up and re-write it all, but I'll see if I can get around to posting what I've already written anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos make me happy, but comments fill me with boundless joy and allow me to improve my writing, which is really the whole point.  
> I have a Tumblr:  
> ooooutisooo.tumblr.com


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